


i cut the rope you keep me on

by everqueen



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Pre-Canon, masquerade ball plus heist, so many competent people in one place taz is unused to it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-07 14:51:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16410563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everqueen/pseuds/everqueen
Summary: how did Hurley find out Sloane was the Raven?(title from "Can't Cheat Death" by The Ballroom Thieves)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onArete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onArete/gifts).



“Doing anything interesting this weekend, Lieutenant?” Private Barry asks, leaning back in his chair and tugging at his collar. “Cause, uh, I was wondering—”

“I’m gay, Private,” Hurley says without looking up. “Don’t you have a lost love or some shit anyway? That weight in your chest or whatever?”

“Maybe you’re her?” Private Barry says hopefully.

“Nope!”

“Well, worth a shot I guess,” Private Barry mumbles.

“No it wasn’t.”

“Lieutenant Hurley!” Capt. Captain Bane calls. “In my office.”

“Yes sir,” Hurley says, rolling her eyes at Private Barry, who goes an unfortunate shade of red. Really, even if Hurley wasn’t gay, a man constantly out of uniform? Who wears blue jeans everywhere? And is always mooning over some lost love? Not remotely her type.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” Capt. Captain Bane says, not looking up as she enters. “I hope you don’t have any plans this weekend.”

“Sir, I’m gay.”

“What?” Capt. Captain Bane does look up at that, raising his eyebrows. “I know? I have an assignment for you.”

“Oh. Yes, of course, sir,” Hurley says, clasping her hands behind her back and willing herself to keep a straight face.

“The Goldcliff Museum’s Masquerade Ball,” Capt. Captain Bane says, handing her an invitation. It looks like it costs more than Hurley’s entire apartment, gilded curlicues winding around the elegantly lettered time and place, extending the invite to “the Militia’s finest”. The whole thing smells faintly of rose perfume. “It’s a benefit for the Goldcliff Museum’s charity programs,” Capt. Captain Bane explains. “They’re displaying the highlight of their collection, the Emerald of the Deep.”

“The paneled necklace?”

“Right,” Capt. Captain Bane says, handing her a drawing of it. The artist really went wild with the coloring, splashing deep green with reckless abandon all over the necklace. Still, she can make out the detailed carvings throughout the panels of the emerald necklace, all depicting mysterious figures and runes that, thus far, no one has been able to decipher. “The museum is incredibly proud of this, as you know,” Capt. Captain Bane continues. “They retrieved it from the ocean floor not too long ago, and this is the first time it will be on full display, to inaugurate their new ancient jewelry exhibit.”

Hurley looks up. “This is exactly the sort of thing that would attract The Raven.”

“Exactly,” Capt. Captain Bane says. “The museum requested extra manpower from the militia, along with their own security and experts keeping an eye out.”

“I’m happy to patrol the exits, sir--”

“Oh no, Lieutenant,” and now Capt. Captain Bane is grinning. “We need you on the floor.”

“But sir, won’t I stick out in my militia uniform?”

Capt. Captain Bane is still grinning. “You would, yes.”

Hurley frowns, and then groans out loud when she realizes what this means. “Oh, I have to get all dressed up for this, won’t I?”

“You have to blend in.”

“I’m not wearing a dress,” Hurley says firmly. “I need maneuverability.”

“Of course,” Capt. Captain Bane says. “Wear what you like. But it’s black tie.”

“Of course it is,” Hurley grumbles, tucking the invitation and the painting away.

“Security detail starts at 1600 tomorrow,,” Capt. Captain Bane calls after her as she heads out of the office, grabbing her bag on the way out. “And say hi to that nice girlfriend of yours for me!”

She acknowledges it with a wave and makes her way to her secret garage. If she’s going to be spending the rest of the weekend dealing with the rich and snobby and wearing a  _ tux _ , she’s going to actually do something useful while she still can. She slips in the side door and flips on the lights, looking fondly at her battlewagon.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Sloane calls from atop the high shelf, where she’s rummaging through one of their less used tool boxes. “How was work?”

Hurley groans in response, shedding her militia uniform and slipping under the battlewagon, checking the suspension. Sloane fixed that leak with the braking fluid, thank the gods, but there’s something putting strain on the engine compartment and Hurley can’t figure out what.

“That bad, huh?” her girlfriend’s dry voice says.

Hurley slides back out, Sloane grinning down at her, black eyes bright, as she ties her straight black hair back. “They want me to go to a  _ masquerade ball _ , babe,” she whines, nudging her leg until Sloane plops down next to her.

“A masquerade ball?” Sloane asks. “For  _ what _ ?”

“Security detail for their fancy-ass necklace thing,” Hurley says, pouting. “I wanted to work on The Ram this weekend.”

“They making you wear a dress?” Sloane asks, handing her a wrench.

“I said no,” Hurley says. “Tux only. I do martial arts, I need to be able to move.”

“You look good in a tux though,” Sloane says wistfully. “You’re gonna come by and show me before you go?”

“I need to  _ get _ another tux first,” Hurley tuts, waving her hand for a different wrench as she slides partway under the battlewagon. “The only one I had got wrecked when I almost caught The Raven last time.”

“Oh right,” Sloane says, head down as she roots through the tool box. “You told me about that.”

“Don’t worry, babe,” Hurley says, patting her thigh. “I’ll catch her.”

“You already have,” Sloane murmurs.

“What?”

“Nothing. So does this mean you have to go shopping?”

“I guess,” Hurley sighs. “You wanna come with me?”

“Ew, no,” Sloane says, rising and tossing the tool box back up on the shelf.. “Besides, I have a thing.”

“Working on The Ram?” Hurley asks hopefully, sliding back out.

“Sorry honey,” Sloane says. “The bakery’s got all sorts of orders coming in for the ball.”

“You’re leaving me to face snooty shop assistants alone? Babe!”

“You can do it,” Sloane says, laughing. “You’re Lieutenant Hurley of the Goldcliff Militia! You’ll be fine!”

“Ugh,” Hurley groans. “Stay and help me with this realignment at least?”

Sloane hesitates, already at the door. She glances back at her girlfriend, already covered in motor oil and sparkles of arcane energy, smiling hopefully. Sloane sighs and rolls her shoulders. “Alright,” she says, softening. “But I can’t stay long.”


	2. Chapter 2

A day and an exceedingly uncomfortable fashion montage later, Hurley stands at the entrance to the Goldcliff Museum. It’s decked out for the party, with elegant silver and black decorations gracing the walls, framing particularly lovely examples of the museum’s collection in their display cases. The main part of the ball is taking place in the grand hall, a huge high-ceilinged room with a white marbled floor and soaring pillars, high arched windows letting the late afternoon sun stream through. There are doorways to various exhibits, some blocked off for the night. A long table extends along one end, waiting for Sloane’s delicious baked goods as well as other finger foods for the rich and famous of Goldcliff to enjoy. The hall ends in a grand staircase, marble covered with a plush red carpet. It leads to the spotlight exhibit, opening tonight, with a single pedestal for the Emerald of the Deep. The case is empty at the moment, the nervous halfling curator, still in her museum uniform, explains as Hurley surveys their security plans, because they wanted to be sure it was safe.

“Where is it now, then?” Hurley asks.

The halfling, who introduced herself as Rosa, smiles, brushing dark hair out of her eyes. “Here,” she says, tapping at her chest.

Hurley stares at her for a moment before she finds her voice again. “What?”

“Oh, look,” and Rosa unzips the front of her uniform, revealing a hidden compartment, lined with velvet. The Emerald of the Deep rests against her, pillowed on velvet and carefully wrapped in tissue paper. “I thought it would be safest with me, until the masquerade begins,” the curator explains. “Capt. Captain Bane warned me that it would be a draw for The Raven.”

“I see,” Hurley says, blinking away her confusion. “How many people do you expect?”

“There are one hundred people on the guest list, not counting security and museum staff,” Rosa explains, offering Hurley a sheaf of papers. Hurley flicks through them, scanning quickly, as the curator outlines the rest of the security detail.

“What about this?” Hurley says, staring up. The grand hall is crowned with poured glass, the pride of the museum’s architecture. There are several large glass panels, flat on top and gracefully curving away to meet the sides of the roof, with a network of narrow metal beams supporting it. The glass stretches over most of the temporary ballroom, including, Hurley notes, the currently empty glass case. There’s one huge sparkling crystalline chandelier descending from the center.  “Any access through that glass?”

“There’s a small panel, there,” Rosa says, pointing out a tiny hatch in the corner. It’s secured with a simple latch.

“That’s exactly The Raven’s style,” Hurley says, frowning.

“Oh, don’t worry,” the curator says. Her grin belies her earlier nervousness, and Hurley suddenly decides that she likes this halfling. “It’s trapped to the Astral Plane and back. She tries to get through there, coming in or going out, and she’s gonna be deposited directly into the holding cells of the Goldcliff Militia.”

“Clever bit of spellwork.”

“I designed it myself.”

“Perhaps we can commission you,” Hurley murmurs, committing the rest of the security plans and layout of the grand hall to memory. “When do the guests arrive?”

“Seven,” Rosa says. “If you’re satisfied, I have other duties…?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Hurley assures her. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Oh, do you need a room to change?”

Hurley sighs. “Yes, I suppose so.”

The curator shows her to a small room off one of the exhibit halls, and is still there when Hurley comes out, tugging at the neck of the tux with a wince, the bowtie in her hand. The shopkeep had talked her into a deep purple, set off with a pale cream button-up underneath and a black bowtie.

“Oh, that’s gorgeous,” Rosa says, beaming. She changed, apparently, at the same time Hurley did, and is dressed in elegant blue-green robes with copper embroidery, her thick black hair pinned back in an elaborate braid. The robes fall nearly to her feet, the color setting off her warm brown complexion beautifully. Hurley wills away the blush, reminding herself of Sloane.

“Lieutenant Hurley?”

“Sorry, yes?”

“I said, do you want me to tie your bowtie for you?” Rosa repeats.

“Oh, sure,” Hurley says, standing awkwardly as the curator quickly and efficiently ties the bowtie, tucking it under the collar.

“There,” she says with a smile. “Not tight enough to make your job difficult, not loose enough for someone to easily grab.”

“It happens more often than you’d think,” Hurley says wryly.

“I imagine it does,” Rosa says. “I have more matters to attend to before the opening. Do you have a mask?”

“Yes,” Hurley says. “You?”

Rosa grins and pulls a mask out of the folds of her robes. It’s not as expansive as the battlewagon masks, covering only her face above her nose. It’s styled like a jeweled hummingbird, brilliant green intermingling with a deep ruby red spilling across her cheekbones. Her brown eyes twinkle out of the eyeholes as Hurley takes her in. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“And yours?”

Hurley smiles, pulling her carefully wrapped mask out of her bag. She didn’t use her ram mask, way too obvious, and she knows however fancy these rich folk might think themselves, none of them are above watching the illegal battleracing. Instead she went with a bear mask, closer to the delicate and useless style suitable for a masquerade ball rather than a helmet. “The brown fur doesn’t exactly match, I know,” she admits.

“No worries,” Rosa says, drawing a slim wand from the depths of her robes, and Hurley idly wonders how much stuff she can stash in there. “May I?”

Hurley hands her the mask. Rosa taps it carefully with the wand, rich black stealing over the fur until she holds a mask of a black bear, the shade matching Hurley’s bowtie perfectly. She hands it back with a wink.

“Thanks,” Hurley says awkwardly. “Um, I’ll let you get back to it?”

“Sure,” Rosa says, giving her a wave as she walks towards her staff, most of whom are watching them with open amusement.

Hurley smiles for another second before tucking the now-black bear mask into her bag. She straightens her bowtie, not that it needs it, and goes to meet up with the head of museum security, a tall half-orc woman with a stern face.

“Lieutenant Hurley,” the woman says, nodding in greeting. “I’m Arlen,  Head of Security here at the museum. Good to have you with us.”

“Hi,” Hurley says, studiously not wincing at the other woman’s grip.

“We have one other outside expert,” Arlen says. She gestures towards the grand staircase, with museum employees carefully draping the banisters with silver cloth. There’s another figure, up near the empty case. It’s a small boy, fancily dressed, scribbling intently in a notebook. He readjusts the hat on his curly black hair and digs a magnifying glass out of his satchel.

Hurley watches him investigate the area around the display case for a moment. “That’s a child.”

“Angus McDonald,” Arlen says. “He came from Neverwinter at the curator’s request. He’s the greatest detective in the world.”

“Okay, but that’s a child,” Hurley repeats.

“Nine years old, and he’s put as many criminals behind bars as the whole Goldcliff Militia.”

Hurley raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“You heard of the Beast of Neverwinter Wood?”

“That serial killer they had a few months back?”

“McDonald is the one who caught him.”

Hurley whistles, low. She’d read about that case in the papers. By all accounts, it was brutal. “The famous Detective McDonald is a child?”

“Yep.”

“Who lets a child hunt serial killers?”

“Dunno,” Arlen shrugs.  She waves a huge hand and catches Angus’s attention. The boy looks up and smiles before carefully descending the stairs, greeting each employee he passes. He reaches them quickly and fairly beams at Hurley. He’s taller than her, but doesn’t seem especially threatening, although Hurley would guess from the intelligent gleam in his eye that he plays up his childlike traits.

“Hello, ma’am!” he says brightly. “I’m Angus McDonald, the world’s greatest detective!”

“So I’ve heard,” Hurley says, shaking his hand. “Lieutenant Hurley, with the Goldcliff Militia.”

“I thought so,” the boy says.

“I’ll leave you to plan,” Arlen says. “Update me if anything changes, Angus.”

“Will do, ma’am.” Angus looks at Hurley. “Curator Rosa contracted me specifically because they think The Raven is intending to strike tonight during the party.”

“That’s her MO,” Hurley agrees. “Do you have a plan?”

“I’ve been reading up on your reports of her, ma’am,” Angus says seriously. “She has a flair for the dramatic, doesn’t she?”

“You can say that again,” Hurley says dryly.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I know you’ve been trying to catch her for a while,” Angus says. “I don’t mean to disparage you.”

“It’s alright, Detective McDonald,” Hurley assures him.

“Oh, you can just call me Angus, ma’am.”

“Then Hurley is just fine too.”

Angus smiles. “I intend to keep an eye out from the sidelines,” he says. “It might draw more attention than I would like if I were to go out on the floor. I am just a little boy, after all.”

“You take one half of the room, I’ll take the other,” Hurley agrees. “And I’ll mingle on the floor if necessary.” She grimaces. “I’m dressed for it.”

“Purple suits you, ma’am.”

“Thank you. What do you intend to do if you find her? She is a master thief,” Hurley says, frowning. “She doesn’t use deadly force, she’s not a killer, but she won’t hesitate to take you down if you get in her way.”

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” Angus says, and pats at his side. Her attention drawn to it, Hurley sees that he has a miniature crossbow concealed and within easy reach. “I won’t kill her or anything, but if she does show up, she won’t get away.”

“Angus, I have to ask…” Hurley says slowly.

“Go ahead,” Angus says, resigned.

“You’re far too young to be doing something like this,” Hurley says. “Who’s responsible for you?”

“I am, ma’am,” Angus says quietly. “If you doubt my competence--”

“Not that,” Hurley says, shaking her head. “I’ve read about your case closure rate over in Neverwinter. By all accounts you’re more competent than most of the militia over there. But you shouldn’t have to do this.”

Angus shrugs. “I’m good at it,” he says simply. “Please don’t try and stop me.”

“Just… be careful.”

“You too, ma’am.”


	3. Chapter 3

The party’s in full swing, and Hurley is miserably hot.

All the rich and famous of Goldcliff are here, wearing opulent dresses and elegant tuxedos that individually cost more than a year’s worth of rent on Hurley’s apartment. Everyone’s talking and laughing, masks on already, and Hurley is regretting her choice of animal. The boy detective is skirting the outer edges, occasionally ducking into the side galleries. He’s wearing a mouse mask that covers most of his face, the soft gray coloring standing out against his rich dark skin. It even has little rounded ears that stick up from his curly black hair. He nods to Hurley from across the room but doesn’t otherwise indicate he knows her. He’s been mostly keeping his eyes on the case at the top of the grand staircase. Rosa put the Emerald of the Deep in it just before the guests arrived, and there it sits, glimmering in the scattered, sparkling light of the massive chandelier.

Hurley herself is mostly standing on the edge, eyeing over the crowd. She can identify just about everybody here, for all they’re wearing masks, although there are a few she doesn’t recognize. One is a tall man, half elf probably, wearing billowy yellow and blue pants, a sparkly silver cape and no shirt. He’s laughing a lot, surrounded by several women and not a few men too, tossing his wavy blond hair over his bedazzled dragon mask. Another is an older woman with a fuller deer mask, antlers and all, wearing a conservative dark green gown and chatting amiably with some of the board of the Goldcliff Trust. One other catches Hurley’s attention, a slim woman who drifts through the crowd without exchanging much more than pleasantries with most of the other guests. She’s wearing a deep blue gown with a daring open back, freckles dotting the skin between her shoulder blades. It’s cut to cling to her body, flaring out a little at her calves, the fabric swirling around her as she moves. She has dark hair in a braided crown, her face almost entirely covered by an incredibly detailed snake mask, the glimmering blue and red scales matching beautifully with her gown. Hurley keeps trying to get a better look, but every time she gets close, the woman disappears into the crowd again. 

On her third aborted attempt, Hurley sighs and slips out of the crowd, leaning against one of the massive pillars. Rosa, circulating among the rich and famous, joins her after a few months, offering her a plate of delicacies.

“Snagged these from the dessert table,” the curator says. “Want one?”

“My girlfriend made these,” Hurley says with a smile, recognizing Sloane’s signature geometric designs piped over the tiny squares of chocolate and pastry.

“She’s extremely talented,” Rosa says, eyes drifting closed as she savors the taste of a black cherry square. “You should be proud.”

“I am.”

“The dancing’s about to start,” Rosa says, nodding towards the corner of the room, where a group of bards is tuning their instruments. “Any sign of The Raven?”

“None yet,” Hurley says, shaking her head.

“Let’s hope that continues,” Rosa says. “I have to go mingle some more.”

“Good luck.”

The curator laughs and hands her the plate. “I’ll need it.” She heads towards the richest family in Goldcliff, clumped together and watching the crowd with placid amusement, ownership dripping from their eyes and postures. Hurley forcibly relaxes her shoulders and resolves to not go over there more than she has to.

“Won’t you dance?” a snobby voice says. Hurley glances up to see the unfamiliar blond man with the dragon mask, absurd shirtless outfit even more obnoxious up close. He’s grinning unpleasantly, and before Hurley can say anything, he’s grabbed her hand and pulled her out onto the dance floor, Hurley dropping the plate in surprise.

“Excuse me, sir, I’m rather busy--” she tries, but he just laughs.

“You were just standing there, wallflower,” he says, a slimy note of condescending authority ringing through his voice. “And besides, I’m sure you’re  _ delighted _ for a chance to dance with the most handsome man at the ball.”

“You’re not from Goldcliff, are you?” Hurley deadpans as she tries with increasing force to pull her hands away.

“Maybe not,” the man shrugs. “What gave it away?”

“Everyone in Goldcliff knows about me,” Hurley grumbles.

She’s about to channel a spell, training be damned, when a smooth feminine voice intervenes. “Might I cut in?” and Hurley is spun out of the man’s hands in a swirl of blue. Between one blink and the next, Hurley is dancing with the unfamiliar woman with the snake mask. Her black eyes glint out of the eyeholes, her bottom lip curved up in a smile, although the rest of her face is covered with the mask. She has the pointed ears of a full elf.

“Thanks,” Hurley says, dancing on her toes so she’s closer in height.

“No problem,” the woman says, and there’s something familiar about her voice, for all it’s deeper than any woman Hurley knows, with a strange lilt to the ends of her words. “He seemed like kind of a dick anyway.”

“You got that right,” Hurley snorts. She glances down at their clasped hands, the woman’s covered in elegant silk gloves. “Do I… know you?”

The woman stiffens, fingers tightening on Hurley’s waist and hand. “No, I don’t think so,” she says, a touch sharply.

“Sorry,” Hurley says, unsure what she’s apologizing for. But something she said made the woman uncomfortable, so she offers a smile under her bear mask. “Maybe you just have one of those faces.”

The woman stares down at her for a beat before she snatches her hand out of Hurley’s and claps it over her mouth, strangling her laughter. Her eyes are bright behind the mask, but she refuses to let any sound come out, desperately covering her mouth.

“Easy there,” Hurley asks, laughing a little herself. “It’s alright to laugh, you know.”

The woman gasps and coughs a few times before regaining her composure. “Sorry,” she says, a little breathlessly. “I, um, I’m just not using to anyone at these fancy parties having any sort of wit.”

“I try,” Hurley says with a wink.

“What do you do?” the woman asks curiously as they swirl around the dancefloor. The height difference seems to melt away, just like it does when Hurley is with Sloane, and this is as good an excuse as any to get a look at the more crowded parts of the room that she couldn’t see from the edges. After all, The Raven could be anywhere, blending into the crowd or slipping through the shadows, her thieving eyes on the Emerald of the Deep.

“I’m a lieutenant,” Hurley explains. “With the Goldcliff Militia. The museum requested extra security tonight.”

“Is it because of that necklace thing everyone’s talking about?” the woman asks.

“Right,” Hurley says, nodding towards the grand staircase. She catches a glimpse of Angus, perching on a railing mostly out of the way, snacking on a cluster of grapes and watching the crowd intently. She’s a little surprised the boy didn’t go for one of Sloane’s pastries; everyone else seems to be enjoying them. “Mind if we swing by the food table?”

“Of course,” the woman says, and they make their way off the dance floor. “Anything catch your eye?”

“My girlfriend always has my eye,” Hurley says loyally. “Speaking of,” she breaks off, grinning as the woman quickly stifles another laugh. “She’s the one who made all these pastries.”

“She’s a good baker?”

“The best,” Hurley declares. “Her shop isn’t the only one that got contracted to cater tonight, but those little pastries that everyone’s eating? Those are definitely hers. Not that anyone else could tell, but,” she shrugs. “I can.”

“I see,” the woman smiles. “Oh, Lieutenant?” she grabs Hurley’s hand as the halfling goes for a small, perfectly formed scone, drizzled with honeyed icing and scattered with sparkling sugar crystals. “I can trust you, right?”

“Of course, ma’am,” Hurley says, slipping into her work bearing. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes, I just,” the woman leans in, whispering in Hurley’s ear. “I thought I saw someone with a feathered cape in one of the side galleries? The one with the ancient Neverwinterian carvings? She was looking awfully suspicious.”

“Feathered cape… Oh, shit.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, uh, excuse me, ma’am,” Hurley says hastily. “Um, Thank you for telling me. I’ll go investigate right away. Be careful.”

“Thank you,” the woman says. “Although the only danger I’m in at a party like this is from being bored to death by too many repeated anecdotes.”

“Hopefully,” Hurley says.

She offers her a quick salute and a wink before striding away, weaving through the partygoers until she reaches the gallery. There are a fair number of people in here, most either museum staff or rich people who fancy themselves amateur historians. She does a quick scan of the room, but there’s no one in here with a cloak, feathered or otherwise, and certainly no sign of The Raven. She frowns, skimming through the warding that permeates the museum. No evidence of tampering with any spells, let alone The Raven’s usual magical style. She even asks a few of the museum staff, not bothering with the rich folk, if they had seen anything. They all respond in the negative.

She reenters the ballroom to a scene of moderate chaos.

The blond man who grabbed Hurley before is yelling, swinging a mostly empty bottle of champagne in a wide circle around him. The subject of his rage is the woman in blue, who is standing directly underneath the ornate chandelier. Despite the mask covering most of her face, she appears supremely unbothered, and when Hurley looks closely, she notices a beautiful pearl necklace encircling the woman’s throat, which definitely had not been there ten minutes before.

“You took that necklace from my date!” the man yells, gesturing vaguely at a cluster of women who all share a dress shape and a snooty air, although at the moment they’re all appearing more alarmed at the drunk guy with a bottle. One of them, in a poisonous yellow-green gown, does seem to be missing the pearl necklace that the rest of them are wearing.

“Sorry darling,” the woman in blue calls, and Hurley swears violently, starting to push through the crowd.

She knows that voice too well.

The woman in blue is grinning. She lowers her stance, hands gripping her swirling skirts, and spins on a heel. Three men, who had been approaching her warily, are blown back by a powerful gust of wind. Even the blond man is knocked backwards, so that the woman is the only person standing under the enormous chandelier.

Hurley swears louder and redoubles her efforts to get through the crowd.

When the woman completes her spin, The Raven stands in her place. The elaborate snake mask has been replaced with a feathered black bird mask covering most of her face, although her mouth is still visible. Her elegant blue dress is now The Raven’s standard dark gray, edged with black, although it’s still a dress rather than her usual close-fitting thief outfit. The Raven smiles and unbinds her hair crown, the sleek black braid falling free over one shoulder.

“I’m afraid that this little number is just a bonus,” the master thief calls. “I have my heart just  _ set _ on an entirely different necklace, thank you.”

“Raven!” Hurley yells, shoving at the crowd now. “Goldcliff Militia, clear a path!”

“Lieutenant Hurley!” The Raven calls, and she sounds far too delighted (and flirty) than Hurley would like. “They truly got the best and brightest to protect their little party, didn’t they?”

“You’re under arrest, Raven!” Hurley shouts, moving much more quickly now that the thoroughly alarmed rich people are  _ finally getting out of her way _ .

“Not much for foreplay, are you?” The Raven pouts. “Sounds lovely, darling, and you know I just  _ love _ some handcuffs, but I’m afraid I’ll have to pass tonight.” She grins infuriatingly and lifts one slim gloved hand into the air, and snaps.

In a moment, almost the entire party collapses. Everyone slumps to the floor in their expensive finery, limbs twitching, faces slack. For all their riches, none of them protected against whatever poison or psychic attack this is.

“Fuck!” Hurley yells, catching a woman in a short pink dress. She’s breathing but unconscious, twitching slightly. “What did you do?”

“Oh, nothing,” The Raven says airily, tilting her head upwards, much like her bird namesake. “Just a little something I whipped up to make sure no one got in the way. I--” she’s cut off but a small crossbow bolt sprouting out of her shoulder. She grunts sharply, the impact knocking her back a step.

Hurley drops the woman onto a fat old man and looks around wildly for the source. Angus McDonald, the boy detective, is lowering a miniature crossbow from the top of the grand staircase. “Get her, ma’am!” he shouts.

“Holy shit, Angus!” Hurley yells back, sprinting for The Raven.

The thief grimaces, hand to her shoulder, and suddenly she’s holding a knife. Hurley winces, ready to block her face and chest, but The Raven flings it sideways. A cut rope comes slinging out of nowhere and she snatches it, wrapping it around her arm with quick, practiced movements. Hurley sprints forward but skids to a stop just in time as the chandelier gives way, plunging towards the marble floor and carrying The Raven up, up, up, straight to the shadowy network of thin metal strips supporting the poured glass above.

Hurley dives backwards, narrowly avoiding a shower of shredding crystal shards to the face. She looks up frantically, but with The Raven’s earlier dramatics, she had, inadvertently or not, stopped anyone from being crushed or even injured by the falling chandelier.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” Angus calls. He’s standing in front of the glass case holding the Emerald of the Deep, mini crossbow out, eyes darting wildly.

“I’m fine!” Hurley calls back, skirting the mass of sharp jumbled crystal.

“I could use some help!” the boy detective says. “I lost her in the shadows!”

“On my way,” Hurley says, channeling her ki. She leaps across the ballroom, crossing it and gaining the stairs much faster than moving at her normal speed. She pulls her staff out of its pocket in her tux and extends it as she runs. “Angus, watch out!”

Angus looks up just as The Raven drops on him from above. She crashes into the boy, knocking the crossbow out of his hand and leaving him wheezing on the ground.

“You alright?” the thief asks as her hands move at the glass case, disabling the magical traps. Even Hurley, who has seen this half a dozen times now with the various close calls she’s had with The Raven, has to admire her speed and skill. Even more curiously, she seems to have asked the question of Angus, who she just knocked to the ground.

“I would be better if you  _ let me up _ ,” Angus snaps from the ground. “Ma’am,” he adds as a cool afterthought. His glasses are askew, but he’s glaring up at The Raven all the same.

“No can do, kiddo,” The Raven says. “Why did they hire a child anyway?”

“He’s the best damn detective in the world,” Hurley snaps from behind her, leveling her staff at The Raven as the thief whirls, black eyes widening in surprise behind her raven mask, her hands full of the Emerald of the Deep. “How’s your shoulder,  _ thief _ ?”

“Been better, darling,” The Raven says. “Thanks for asking.”

“Just come quietly,” Hurley growls. “It’s over.”

“Tempting, you know,” The Raven says. “But no, I don’t think I will.”

She darts away, towards one of the upper galleries. Hurley yells and sprints after her, faintly hearing Angus call, “Go get her, ma’am!”

They burst into the gallery, the exhibit detailing the rise of Rockport’s technological advancements leading to its position as the City of Industry. One whole side of the room is floor to ceiling windows, looking out towards the sea. There aren’t any people in here, luckily. The Raven ducks behind a stand illustrating the first steam train, fat drops of blood leaving a trail behind her.

“Come on!” Hurley shouts, listening intently.

The thief’s labored breathing fills the small room, and Hurley moves as silently as possible. She sees a shadow twitch and thrusts her staff, feeling it hit home. The Raven lets out a pained grunt and jerks away, accidentally into a spotlight over an empty pedestal. She stumbles backwards, eyes on Hurley, one hand on her wounded shoulder and the other fiddling with something at her hip.

“Love to stay and chat, my dear,” the thief pants. “But I really must be--”

Hurley doesn’t give her a chance to finish that sentence, springing forward and sweeping her staff down. The Raven dodges and swipes at Hurley with a knife, scoring a thin line through her tux and into her bicep.

“I’d say first blood, but the boy detective really beat both of us to the punch, didn’t he, darling?”

“Stop calling me that,” Hurley growls, striking with a quick fist. The blow lands on The Raven’s uninjured arm, knocking her back. She peppers her with quick, hard hits, pushing out words through gritted teeth with each one. “I. Have. A. Girlfriend!”

“So you’ve said,” The Raven says, sounding like she’s rolling her eyes. She crouches as Hurley swings her staff at her head, and sweeps her leg, knocking Hurley off her feet. “And I’m sure she’s lovely, but so are you, dear.” 

“Enough of your bullshit,” Hurley snaps, scrambling to her knees as The Raven backs up. She throws the small packet she prepared after her last unsuccessful run-in with the thief. It hits square in the chest, knocking The Raven back to land against the window. “I’m going to find out who you are,” she growls, rising and stepping closer as the Dispel Magic takes hold and flings off the thief’s feathered mask.

And Hurley finds herself looking into the shocked face of the woman she loves.

“Sloane?” Hurley manages, staring at her girlfriend, bleeding, with a stolen necklace around her throat.

“I’m sorry,” Sloane says, and slams her fist against the glass window behind her, summoning her mask with a quick snap of her fingers.

The window shatters as smoke erupts, and then Sloane, and the Emerald of the Deep, are gone.


	4. Chapter 4

“Well this was a goddamn disaster,” Capt. Captain Bane growls, watching as healers stream into the ruined museum.

“Yep,” Hurley agrees shortly, watching Curator Rosa, ice pack against her head, nod along to Angus’s retelling of events.

“You care to explain what went wrong?”

“She got away.”

“I can see that, Lieutenant,” Capt. Captain Bane snaps. “How?”

“She’s fast, she had something that blew through the glass windows in the upper gallery,” Hurley says, the mask flying off to reveal Sloane’s shocked, pale face replaying again and again in her mind. “But she’s injured, sir. Detective McDonald got a shot off in her shoulder, she’s going to need to find treatment for it.”

“Stay on it,” Capt. Captain Bane says gruffly. “At least no one was killed.”

“I don’t think that’s quite The Raven’s style, sir.”

Capt. Captain Bane snorts. “You would know, Lieutenant.”

“Anything about the poison?”

“They traced it to the baked goods, but only the ones from Sazed’s place downtown. They’re questioning the staff now, but it looks like the owner himself is in the wind. Sources are telling me he’s left Goldcliff entirely.”

“Sir, with your permission, I’d like to follow up on something?” Hurley asks, watching Angus watch her, even as he talks to the curator.

“Related to this?”

“Very much so.”

“Go on,” Capt. Captain Bane says. “I’ll finish up here.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hurley goes, unsurprised when Angus falls into step beside her. They don’t speak until they’re a few blocks away from the museum. “You know something, don’t you?” he says quietly.

“Something,” Hurley murmurs, glancing sideways at him. He’s not looking directly at her, but she knows he’s watching nonetheless.

“I couldn’t hear what was going on in the gallery,” Angus continues. “But I know what people look like when they’ve realized something that…” he pauses. “That changes the way they see the world. Is it something like that, ma’am?”

Hurley stops and waits until he looks at her before smiling wryly. “How’d you get so insightful this young, kid?”

“I had a high perception roll.”

“What?”

“Nothing, ma’am,” Angus says hastily. “I won’t assume I know what’s going on, but… are you going to bring The Raven to justice?”

“Something like that,” Hurley says. “Are you going back to Neverwinter?”

“I don’t know, ma’am,” Angus says. “I’ll probably stick around and see if I can track down the Emerald of the Deep. I have a few contacts here in Goldcliff who might be able to help.”

“I’ll see if I can help with that.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Oh, and Angus?” Hurley says as he turns down another main street. The boy detective stops and looks back over his shoulder, and Hurley grins. “You’re a hell of a shot.”

He grins back, all teeth, and Hurley is abruptly glad they’re on the same side. “Thanks, ma’am. Have a good day!”

“We’ll see,” Hurley mutters, and makes for the garage.

It’s dark, surprising for the daylight streaming through the front door when Hurley opens it. There’s no sound, but Hurley knows immediately that there’s someone else in here. She knows, with a faint sniff, exactly who it is.

She smells machine oil, and sweat, and metal, and blood.

“Sloane,” she says flatly, flicking on the lights.

Her girlfriend hisses, a sound all too familiar from all the mornings Hurley pulled the comforter away from her sleeping face, but they’re not in bed, it’s not another lazy morning, and Hurley isn’t sure she recognizes the woman slumped on the floor. Sloane’s back is against their battlewagon, bloody bandages at her feet, one hand pushed against the wound in her shoulder, the crossbow bolt nowhere to be seen. She watches Hurley warily, pain tightening her features, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Hey, Hurls,” she murmurs.

The use of her nickname from the only person Hurley has ever let use one spurs her into action. She moves across the floor to Sloane in three quick long strides, dropping to her knees with a growl. “Sloane, what the  _ fuck _ ,” she hisses, channeling her ki with short sharp movements and pouring it into Sloane’s shoulder. Her girlfriend sighs in relief and relaxes as Hurley’s ki swirls through her wound, knitting the raw flesh back together until the injury looks a few weeks old, rather than a few hours.

“Oh c’mon, babe,” Sloane says, eyes half lidded.

“Sloane! You’re a thief! You’re  _ the _ thief! You’re The Raven!”

“I know,” Sloane says, and she has the nerve to smile. “Did you see my cool stunt with the chandelier?”

“I, yeah, of course, it was rad,” Hurley sighs. “You took the crossbow bolt out yourself?”

“Course I did, kid left a tracking spell on it.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“But Sloane,  _ why _ ?”

“You know I’m a rogue,” Sloane says. “A really, really good one. I’m tired of the bullshit that goes on with the rich people in this city.”

“What are you talking about?” Hurley says, narrowing her eyes as she helps Sloane sit up.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Sloane says. “Goldcliff is rotten, Hurls. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer, and half the militia is corrupt anyway--”

“Watch it.”

“Sorry, but besides your precinct? I’m not wrong, and you know it,” Sloane says. “Besides, you can’t act all lawful good with me, babe. We both do illegal battlewagon racing.”

“I know, but no one gets hurt when we race.”

“No one gets hurt when I steal, either.”

Hurley opens her mouth and then closes it again, thinking, remembering how The Raven pushed people away from the chandelier before she dropped it. “What about the poison, then?”

“Low level,” Sloane says with a shrug that she visibly regrets, rubbing at her shoulder. “No long term effects.”

“You put Sazed’s bakery out of business.”

“You know he’s wanted in connection with the murder of 40 people out in Glamour Springs a few years back, right? Him and that elf chef?”

Hurley hadn’t.

“Besides,” Sloane says. “When I steal, it’s from people who would barely notice. I never steal from people who can’t afford it, and most of the profit goes back to them. A fantasy Robin Hood situation, if you will.”

“The Emerald of the Deep?” Hurley asks, raising an eyebrow.

“There,” Sloane says, jerking a thumb backwards. The priceless artifact lies jumbled in an empty toolbox, albeit set on soft cloth instead of clanging against the metal.

“Why’d you steal that? The museum isn’t some oppressive robber baron.”

“Status.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“They were practically  _ begging _ me to steal it, Hurls,” Sloane says, leaning against her with a shit-eating grin. Hurley shoves at her, softly so as not to jar her shoulder, trying to stop her lips from twitching. “Ah, I see that smile, babe. Admit it: I’m good.”

“I should still arrest you.”

“You have. Many times.”

“And  _ bring you in _ , Sloane.”

Sloane watches her thoughtfully, still with her head on Hurley’s shoulder. “I’ll return the necklace.”

Hurley squints at her. “You will?”

“Yep,” Sloane says matter-of-factly. “It’s important to you. And besides,” she rises then, stretching with a grimace as it tugs at her shoulder. “It’ll get that McDonald kid off my back, send him back to Neverwinter hopefully. He’s a hell of a shot.”

“That’s what I said.”

“I won’t do any more status jobs, if you don’t want me too,” Sloane says earnestly. “But, Hurley, you know as well as I do that there’s something wrong with this city. And our battlewagon races, my jobs, your work? We’re making it  _ better _ .” She smiles, offering Hurley her hand. “I have some contacts that are telling me they might have found something big that could help change this whole city. It’s something powerful, a sash or something, but I can’t follow up if you bring me in.”

Hurley clicks her tongue in thought, letting Sloane pull her up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was afraid,” Sloane says frankly. “First that you would bring me in, and then that you would be so betrayed that you wouldn’t want to see me anymore.”

“Babe,” Hurley says, rolling her eyes. “You’re full of shit, you know that?”

Sloane squawks as Hurley flips up her discarded raven mask with a foot and jams it on her head. She laughs as Sloane tries to squirm out from under it. The half-elf finally succeeds and covers Hurley’s face in kisses, laughing herself.

“I have conditions,” Hurley says as Sloane kisses her.

“Tell me.”

“No stealing from anyone who’s not stupid rich.”

“That’s already a rule.”

“Return the Emerald of the Deep.”

“Done.”

“No more poison.”

“As you like.”

“And Sloane?”

Her girlfriend hums against her neck.

“I’m driving for the next battlewagon race.”

“ _ What _ ?”

But Hurley’s laughing, tugging at Sloane’s unraveling braid as she leaps onto their battlewagon. And they keep laughing, chasing each other around the garage, the Emerald of the Deep glimmering innocently in the tool box.

The very next day, that famed necklace rests again in its neat glass case, a relieved Curator Rosa trying to explain to a nodding Lieutenant Hurley that it was just back, somehow, and no one even saw anything.

The next battlewagon race, The Ram flies like never before, winning by a wingspan.

All anyone hears of the driver and the gunner is laughter, floating through the air like cherry petals on the breeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! please go check out Marlee's fics, they're amazing!
> 
> i'm running out of new ways to encourage comments/kudos lmao
> 
> thanks i love you bye!

**Author's Note:**

> i've never written hurloane before so this was fun!! a much belated birthday fic for my dear friend Marlee, hope you enjoy!
> 
> the fic's completed, chapters will go up every uhhhh week or so?
> 
> comment/kudos are always appreciated but even if you just read it??? amazing
> 
> thanks i love you bye!


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